All I have left to give you, my love,
Is the memory of a fuchsia Atlanta sky.
I give you the lightning and disintergrated love songs from a southern radio.
I taste the salted air,
Exhale you to the Adriatic.
But my love, I am a bit older now,
My tears fall a bit slower now.
And you will live inside me.
The scent of the back of your neck resides in my ribs.
Your gaze- tucked, folded into my being.
The memory of your lips melts through me.
And the purification I pray for
comes flooding in
like the rain after a drought.